


homeward bound we be

by portraitofemmy



Series: Queliot Week 2020 [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, Arguing, Bajoran!Quentin, Established Relationship, Found Family, Light Angst, M/M, Trill!Eliot, star trek voyager - Freeform, super light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Queliot Week Day 6: “So we’re just giving up?” + angstStar Trek Voyager AU— The discovery of a wormhole gives the crew of the Voyager some hope of a way home. But what does that mean to our background heroes, Eliot and Quentin?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Queliot Week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017262
Comments: 14
Kudos: 66





	homeward bound we be

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhh, I'm so nervous to post this! I've been tossing this AU around for LITERALLY months, I started talking to **PanBoleyn** about it in April, I think? If you're unfamiliar with the Star Trek universe, I've made a highly specific primer you can find [here](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/post/635427960152834048/star-trek-voyager-a-primer-for-queliot-purposes). Big thanks to **hoko_onchi** for a huge amount of cheerleading and beta reading.
> 
> If you like this AU or would like to see more of it, pls drop me a comment because i haven't the faintest idea if there's even an audience for this. I hope you enjoy it!

The ship is buzzing with energy when Quentin finishes his shift.

It usually is, this early morning energy as people filter in and out of the galley, grabbing whatever Neelix has on offer before heading to take up their posts for alpha shift. But today, there’s an extra kick to the atmosphere, anticipation and excitement palpable in the air, in the smiles on the faces of the officers Quentin passes. He briefly considers heading to the galley himself, to gather food and gossip before heading to bed, but he doesn’t have the energy left to handle socialization without Eliot, even briefly. It had been a long, long, shift; with so much of the day-crew’s attention focused on the possibility of a way home, he’d been scrambling all over 4 decks fixing relays and burned out circuitry. Really, all he wants is to crawl into bed and get some sleep. 

He’s not really aware of having headed for Eliot’s room until he’s standing outside the door, hovering awkwardly in the corridor debating if it’s weird for him to sleep in Eliot’s room if Eliot’s not also there. But Eliot’s an officer, which means he’s got a room to himself, even if he is only Lieutenant. Quentin doesn’t really relish the idea of going back to the crew quarters he shares with Penny on the best of days, but especially not on a day where he’s too tired to keep his messy thoughts from spilling out all over his Betaziod roommate. 

Standing out in the corridor is probably weirder than just going into the room, so Quentin steps forward. The computer accepts his biometrics, opening the door for him without him having to touch the pad on the wall at all, which means, well— It means that Eliot took the time to tell the computer Quentin has free access to his quarters, which is probably as good as an invitation. The lights come up as Quentin steps in, feeling the tension ratchet down as the doors whisk shut behind. The room is comfortable, homey. Eliot had the benefit of being assigned to the Voyager before the accident, which means he has more personal touches in his room than most, with hangings on the wall and a small collection of bottled liquors from the alpha quadrant— not the synthehol made en mass with replication, but the kind that came from actual distilleries, artsy and pretentious and hardly ever consumed. 

Pacing over to the replicator, Quentin spends one of his precious weekly replicator rations on _mapa_ bread with _moba_ jam, homesickness he hasn’t felt in years curling his chest at the taste of the familiar food; not as good as his dad’s, to be sure, but it still tastes like home. And well, if things go well—

He cuts off the train of thought before it can form, fighting the feeling that if he dares to hope for something, the very act of hoping may prevent it from coming to pass. He’d left a data PADD loaded with a novel in here, and he focuses on reading that, taking the opportunity to read without having to be teased for reading his entertainment in lue of embracing holo-novels.

_We didn’t have holo-novels during the Cardassian occupation. We barely had books_ , he’d snapped at Margo once, clutching the printed novel to his chest, ashamed of how it still felt precious. She’d never bothered him about it again. Eliot still teased him, but that was different. Eliot’s teasing felt warm and familiar, like a hug. He didn’t mean anything by it, besides as a way to show he’s paying attention to Quentin’s habits, his interests and hobbies.

Quentin gets through about half a chapter before exhaustion catches up to him. He’d had vague ideas of staying up until Eliot finished his shift, but Quentin has the distinct sense that if he tries that, he’s going to end up sleeping face down on the table, and that always makes Eliot frowny and worried looking, like he’s going to catch Quentin sleeping on the floor again. Like it hasn’t been _years_ since things got that bad. It’s easier, all told, just to strip down to the underlayer of his uniform and crawl into Eliot’s bed, PADD in hand. At least if he falls asleep reading now, he’s already in bed. 

He isn’t aware of falling asleep, one slow blink he’s alone in the room, and the next time he opens his eyes, Eliot’s sitting on the bed next him, smiling softly as his palm runs up and down Quentin’s bare arm.

“Hey,” Quentin mumbles, stretching a little against the fog of sleep clouding his brain. 

“Hey, yourself,” Eliot returns, voice low and quiet in the false-night of the ship. “This is a nice surprise. Not every day I get to come home and trip on your boots.”

It’s probably against the sentiment for Quentin to point out that they usually came back to the room together. “Sorry,” he says instead, rubbing at his eye until he can look up at Eliot more clearly, the fond smile on his face making Quentin’s stomach flip pleasantly. 

“You would have never made it through the academy leaving your uniform and boots all over the floor like this,” Eliot murmurs, fond, hand carefully brushing Quentin’s hair back behind his ear. The touch brushes against Quentin’s earring, still a strangely intimate contact even after all these years. Even though Eliot was the one who’d _gifted_ him this earring, wholly unaware that gifting an earring was tantamount to a proposal of marriage. Quentin had never told him; perhaps someday he would. 

“The Maquis didn’t care what I did with my clothes, as long as I was wearing them,” Quentin murmurs, curling towards the weight of him on the bed. Eliot’s hands are always cold, a particular quirk of the Trill that Quentin’s gotten used to, but the rest of him rest of him radiates a pleasant warmth in Starfleet-regulation temperature of the room, always a little chilly for Quentin’s taste. Sleep is fading from his mind, now, and Quentin’s early excitement comes back to him in a wave. “Any news? About the wormhole.”

“Nothing official,” Eliot says with a shake of his head. “I was on the con all morning while Paris was off with the senior staff doing whatever it is they’re doing. Rumor through the ship is Harry’s excited, but—”

“Harry’s always excited,” Quentin fills in, and Eliot inclines his head, as though to say _just so_. He shifts away, a bit, straightening up so he can start to pull off his boots, letting Quentin sit up more fully, knees pulling up to his chest. Pensive, he studies Eliot in profile as he goes through the process of pulling off his uniform jacket— the dark spots that flow down from his temples and down the sides of his neck becoming more visible, following the line of his shoulders and disappearing under the grey of his sleeveless undershirt. Humming thoughtfully, Quentin reaches out to touch, following the pattern of spots up the lovely long column of Eliot’s throat until he can sink his fingers into the soft curls of Eliot’s short hair. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” Eliot sighs, eyes falling closed as he leans back into Quentin’s hand. “I’ve had to pull double shifts three times this week.”

“Can’t someone else fly the ship?”

“Yeah, like the day pilot, maybe?” Eliot offers with a laugh, shooting Quentin a long suffering look. “This comes with the promotion, you know. Tom should be back at the helm soon enough.”

“I mean— I guess it’s all worth it, if— you know,” Quentin pauses, hardly daring to say the words aloud. “If this time we can actually get home.”

Eliot’s face goes still, his joval expression frozen in place. Quentin probably wouldn’t even notice it, if he didn’t spend a truly exorbitant amount of time looking at Eliot’s face. It’s quirks and peculiarities are something of a speciality of his; truly Quentin is a _connoisseur_ of the lines of Eliot’s mouth, of the minute movements of his eyebrows. Only because he _knows_ Eliot so well, does he catch it, the reaction Eliot’s keeping close to the chest, whatever it is— he’s keeping it under lock.

“Yeah, it sounds that way.” There’s a careful neutrality to his voice, matching the mask of his face, and he’s pulling away, standing up to strip down his pants. 

Quentin frowns, watching him. “That’s a good thing.”

“Sure is.” Eliot’s not looking at him, carefully folding his uniform pants and jacket, which Quentin maintains is _ridiculous_ — they’re just going to the quartermaster to get cleaned anyway. Now, at least, it gives him a convenient excuse to avoid Quentin’s gaze. 

“I mean, our lives have basically been on hold for seven years—” 

“Is that how you see it? Really?” Eliot asks, wheeling around, cracks in the facade all over his face now, emotion bleeding through the edges. “All this time we’ve invested in exploration and learning, everything this ship has done, you think it was just— something we should throw away?”

Quentin blinks, baffled. _What?_ Where’s this coming from? “No, it’s just— I mean, I never signed up for deep space exploration. I didn’t exactly expect this big pause in the middle of my life, you can’t blame me for wanting to go back to living.”

“We are living!” Eliot snaps, a note of— something in his voice, anger, fear, Quentin can’t tell. “If you want to live your life, live it here!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what that means.”

Of all the Prophet-saved _assholes_ in the universe— Quentin wants to— to— to— to fucking kick something, break something, to storm out of the room. But that would be quite a show for anyone in the corridor, wouldn’t it— Quentin storming out in his shorts with his uniform in a bundle. The only recourse left to him is to turn in a huff, give his back to Eliot and stare at the wall. Which is _fine_ , Quentin doesn’t want to look at him _anyway_ , asshole—

“I’m sorry,” comes Eliot’s voice from behind him, accompanied by the chill of his hand pressing into the center of Quentin’s shoulder blades. “I just mean— my life is here. Everyone I care about is here.”

And just like that, all the fight goes out of Quentin, like air expelled from an airlock. It’s true; he does, he does know that. He knows what Eliot left behind on Trill; he knows that before Voyager all Eliot had was Margo, and she’s here. He knows that, while _he_ might see Julia’s face behind his lids when he closes his eyes, might long to hear his father’s voice... Eliot has none of the same things waiting for him. It’s just hard to reconcile sometimes. “Yeah, I— I’m sorry too.”

Eliot hums softly, and Quentin can feel the shift of the bed as he moves closer, palm sliding up over Quentin’s waist. “Do you think you’ll go back to Bajor? When— when we get home?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin admits, turning over to face Eliot. He can just see him in the dark, through the low light of the soft strip lighting at the edge of the room. “I’ve been away from the eyes of the Prophets for so long, I’d— I’d like to at least visit. The way I left things when I joined the Maquis, it wasn’t great. There are people I owe apologies too.”

“I can certainly understand that.” Eliot’s voice is quiet, soothing, low and warm. Quentin just— wants to be close to him, in a way he’s never really known with anyone else. He wants it now, and it’s his for the taking, scooting in closer to Eliot so they’re sharing a pillow, close enough to feel Eliot’s breath on his face.

“After that— I don’t know. I’ve spent most of my life fighting. I think I’d— It’d be nice to do something else, for a while. I’m not bad at fixing things, I was thinking I could— you know, enlist in Starfleet. For real.”

“Yeah?” Eliot asks, a note of brightness to his voice, of _hope_ — “I’m sure Captain Janeway would give you a recommendation.”

“Oh _please_ , Captain Janeway doesn’t know I _exist_ ,” Quentin huffs, shoveling Eliot’s shoulder hard enough to make him sway on the bed, laughing. “But she’d probably be willing to ask Lieutenant Torres about me enough to get through one, sure.”

“Same thing,” Eliot says with a half shrug, stretching forward to indulge in the habit of his, kissing the ridges on Quentin’s nose. _Cute_ , he calls them, as fascinated by them as Quentin is by his spots. They really are quite a pair. 

“What about you?” Quentin asks casually, reaching forward to card his fingers through the scratchy hair on Eliot’s chest. “Do you ever think about going back to Trill?”

“Not even for a minute,” Eliot says flippantly, a brittle smile on the edge of his mouth. “I left the moment I could at warp speed, and I’m not intending to go back for anything. But, you know, you’re right about one thing, I think I’ve had my fill of deep space for a while. I might, you know, be interested in visiting some frontier planets—”

“Oh, like Bajor?”

“It had crossed my mind,” Eliot agrees, lightly, and Quentin giggles, tipping his face down to rest the point of his nose against Eliot’s throat. “But after that, you know, I wouldn’t mind being stationary for a little while. The Utopia Planitia Shipyards are always looking for test pilots, if— if I have a reason to stay near Earth.”

“Transporter range to San Francisco,” Quentin mutters, breathing in the scent of Eliot’s skin. “We could live together.”

“You’ll be busy. The Academy is brutal sometimes.”

“All the more reason to share a bed,” Quentint points out, pulling back to frown at Eliot. “You’re worth making time for.”

Eliot’s face goes warm, soft, open in the way that’s still so, so rare. Reaching up, he cups Quentin’s cheek, brushing his thumb across the furrow in Quentin’s brow, dragging it gently down the ridges of his nose. “I know, _pal’zhain._ ” The term of endearment makes Quentin flush, turning his face to press a kiss in the center of Eliot’s palm.

“I hope we make it. I hope this wormhole is the Prophets watching over us. Wormholes are kind of their thing.”

“So I hear,” Eliot says dryly, leaning in to kiss Quentin softly, slow and sweet, before settling back. “I hope so too.”

___

They meet up in the galley at the end of Delta shift, all of them, their little mingled group of Maquis and Starfleet officers, the lot of them who pulled night shifts regularly enough to be in the habit of it. Eliot and Margo are there already when Quentin arrives, coming off their bridge shift, a picture of contrast on one of the couches near the far wall, still in their uniforms, splashes of red against the grey. Quentin gets himself a bowl of some kind of— soup? It’s warm and kind of viscous— and heads over to them, taking a seat easily at Eliot’s free side. 

“Any word?” he asks, looking from Margo to Eliot. Margo frowns, and Quentin’s heart sinks.

“Nothing official yet,” she says, leaning around Eliot to talk to him. “I was at ops all night; Harry filled me in a little. It seems like there is a wormhole, but it’s practically microscopic on the other end.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means,” Alice says, primly, as she and Penny drop down onto the opposite couch, “Even if we could get the ship inside, there’d be no way to get out the other side. We’re still digging through probe telemetry in astrometrics, but— it’s not promising.”

Josh and Kady round out the group, Josh falling to sit on the last spot on the couch while Kady grabs a chair, turning it backwards to straddle and sit near Quentin and Josh. “But I mean, if the wormhole is stable, there’s gotta be a way to make the other side bigger, right? I don’t know, I’m just a botanist, but there’s gotta be a way to like, stretch that shit open,” Josh asks, looking around at the rest of them. 

“Lovely,” Eliot drawls, rolling his eyes. “So we just need to finger the universe until it’s asshole opens? Who’s volunteering to do that?”

Alice frowns. “Wormholes aren’t irises that can dilate. It’d be closer to trying to force your fist through a buttonhole. Anything we try to do to it could completely collapse the structural integrity at best, and rip a whole in subspace at worst. Stable wormholes are incredibly rare to begin with. The gamma quadrant wormhole near Bajor is the only one that’s been studied in any detail.”

Quentin catches Kady’s eye, an instinctive act of solidarity. The returning quirk of her mouth is short lived, but— well Kady has as much unfinished business back home as Quentin does, doesn’t she? She nods as she speaks, “There’s no way to tell how much a part the Prophets, or the wormhole inhabitants or whatever you want to call them— how much part they play in keeping the wormhole stable.”

“A large part, I’d guess,” Alice says, her straight blonde hair swinging in a curtain as she shakes her head. “But regardless of whatever it is keeping this one steady, it’s far too small to do us any good.”

Her words hang in the air like a death knell, hovering like a spectre of lost hope. Not feeling particularly hungry anymore, Quentin pushes his bowl of soup away onto the table between the couches, it’s mysteriously viscous contents sloping with the movement. “So we’re just giving up?”

The broad weight of Eliot’s palm settles against Quentin’s back, rubbing up and down in a long arc. Next to him, Margo speaks with the confidence and authority of her command training: “Of course we’re not giving up. When has Captain Janeway ever given up? This is another setback, but you heard Alice, stable wormholes haven’t really been studied. This is proof of concept that another one can exist. So why not a third? Why not transwarp tunnels, or finding some other bit of technology we can’t comprehend?”

“Yeah, I know,” Quentin sighs, pulling his feet up onto the couch. Disappointment is sinking in his stomach, and he tries to keep it contained, at least enough so it doesn’t spill out and make Penny murder him. Eliot’s arm slides up around his shoulders, and he lets himself sink into his side, let’s it make him feel small in the good way— safe and contained. “I guess I just got my hopes up.”

“I miss her too,” Kady says, under her breath, looking down rather than at Quentin, but he knows exactly what she means. Neither of them had been on good terms with Julia when they got flung to the other side of the galaxy. Now she probably thinks they’re dead, and have been for seven years. 

“There’s nothing wrong with being hopeful!” Josh says, cheerfully, with that— fucking _annoying_ human optimism that makes Quentin want to strangle him sometimes. At least Margo and Alice’s optimism was couched in practicality. “Hope blooms eternal, I always say.”

Collective groans drown out the end of his sentence. “No.” — “What’s the rule?” — “You pay for botany puns in replicator rations, you know this.”

Josh springs up, an unshakable smile on his face. “You know what, I will _happily_ replicate us all a bottle of something to cheer us up. A worthy cause in my opinion.”

“I can’t believe you sleep with him on purpose,” Eliot whispers, under his breath, and Quentin glances over to watch Margo’s answering shrug.

“He’s simple. You know what you’re getting with Josh.”

The disappointment is still there, but as Josh comes back carrying a bottle of replicated synthehol, it’s hold lessens slightly. Leaning back comfortably into Eliot’s side, Quentin looks around at the rest of his friends, already moving away from the subject of their most recent failure. Affection for them grows in place of the disappointment, for this little family he’s helped build, here in the dark, cold vastness of space. 

So maybe Eliot’s right, after all. This isn’t some kind of pause, or disconnection from his life.

This is living.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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